 | "Blueberry Shortcake" is an excerpt from Life Bits and Other Chunks: Memoirs of an untrained man, by Stephen L. Wilson. Available at Smashwords, Amazon and Nook. All rights reserved. © 2013. |
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An example would be his honesty. One time his brother kicked
him in his ear. Apparently, the brother’s toenails were so long that Bill had a
noticeable gash in his ear. When I saw it, I knew the kids at school would
tease him, so I told him to make up a story.
When we boarded the school bus, one of my more obnoxious
friends asked Bill what had happened. Poor honest Bill actually told the truth!
Being twelve years old and wanting to make an impression on our upperclassmen
in Jr. High, this sort of embarrassing revelation was a socially fatal mistake.
All I could do was
shake my head. That’s how it was with Bill. Sometimes he would say or do things
so socially damning and sometimes even repulsive, that it was embarrassing to
know him.
Now, don’t get me
wrong. He had enough qualities to be an interesting fellow. As an example, he
was a smart kid; always on the honor roll. He had a wealth of knowledge in
several areas. Again, however, his quality overwhelmed his social skills. He
had such a matter –of-fact, know-it-all way of putting things that he easily
irritated people.
All of this was going
on during a time when this poor kid was in first-stage adolescence. His
athleticism was dormant, marred by un-coordination. He developed gradually from
seventh through ninth grade, but the transition was, as mentioned, gradual.
I was a bit more athletic. Having played seventh grade ‘B’
squad and eighth grade being a starter, when ninth grade came along and I was
finally an upper classman, I somehow persuaded ol’ Bill to join the football
team.
Mind you, this was
not unwarranted. When we played at home, Bill could easily outrun me, though
his style was all his own, to be nice. He could also kick the laces off of the
ball. Since he was full of knees and elbows, he was tough to tackle. In all, I
figured this would be a social progression for him and it was a way I could
show my camaraderie by introducing him to a positive way to rub elbows with
ninth grades’ upper echelon.
Looking back, Bill
probably thought the same. I mean, now that we were in ninth grade, he would
have a chance to show off his varsity uniform on game day: A true social gold
star.
I should have known
better. During the first day of practice, he was involved in a time-honored
ritual, probably practiced among young adolescents still. What happens is one
teammate gets down on his hands and knees behind someone while perpetrator two
engages the suspect in conversation. When perp one is ready, perp two pushes
the suspect. What results is comical humiliation at the expense of the subject.
Bill must have been
pushed four times or more that day.
Though I didn’t
laugh, I knew better than to disrupt the fate of the issuing of this
time-honored tradition. It was pure bad luck. I’ll give him credit. He endured
weeks of various versions of time-honored traditions, many of which I suspect
were only spur-of-the-moment honored traditions.
At any rate, he was
anxious for game day to arrive. He had earned a starting spot on our
special-teams squad! I was impressed by his determination. I said as much to
him the night before game day. As for Bill, he was confident, and I couldn’t
help feeling a bit of pride under the circumstances. After all, most of the
people on the team felt the way I did and pretty much accepted him, despite and
because of his ridicule.
At the bus stop the
next day, Bill seemed troubled. I asked him what was wrong. He said that
something had happened to his uniform. At first, I thought he meant he’d lost
it. I couldn’t believe it. Our colors were blue and gold. The jerseys were
bright yellow with royal blue numbers. The pants were snowy white; definitely
and obviously snappier than our practice pants. How could he possibly have lost
it?
He told me that it
was worse than that. He still had his uniform, but his mom messed up his pants
in the laundry. Upon request, he opened his duffel bag and I peered in. Instead
of a dazzling display of bleached white pants, what stared back was a pair of
pants stained the most brilliant indigo I have ever seen! I had never felt so
bad for the man as I did at that moment. I didn’t have the heart to tell him
that this qualified him for entry to the next level of ridicule. In fact, this
would probably signify him a ridicule legend. What I most likely said was,
"Oh, man!"
All day long, as we
strutted our stuff in our varsity, game-day jerseys, we both obviously knew
about his pants. I didn’t mention it to anyone, but it weighed heavy on my mind
all day.
Bill, as it turned
out, appeared in no way bothered; in fact, he was on cloud nine. For one whole
school day, his jersey entitled him to hang out with anyone else who was
wearing one. He could nod towards a fellow player, and they dutifully nodded
back. In public. Even in front of girls. He was one of the gang.
In the locker room
after school, I noticed him begin to worry. Our first game was at home. People
who knew us would be watching. I knew he was headed for trouble the instant he
put on his pants. Everyone else had new, unstained, bright pants. Bill stood
out embarrassingly.
I had an inkling that
whatever came next would probably be funny, and I was trying to steel myself
against it in support of Bill.
Right then, someone
shouted out, "Hey! Check out Blueberry Shortcake!"
I couldn’t help it. I
had a headache for ten minutes from trying to hold back an onslaught of
uncontrollable snorts. From that point on, the situation was hopeless. They
respected him enough not to verbally embarrass him in front of the home crowd,
but the locker room retorts were plentiful. They couldn’t resist. Even the
coach bellowed, "Boy! What the hell didjya do to your britches?"
As for Bill, he never
finished the season. I can’t say as I blame him. I haven’t seen him in years,
but every time I think of him, I just shake my head.
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